Relapse
by jackbattle6
Summary: This is a lil story about Sherlock relapsing on cocaine, and how he and John work together to get him clean again. Together they have to persevere through the cravings and withdrawal symptoms. I don't know how long it's going to be, but I intend for it to be several chapters.
1. Chapter 1

For the first time in just under five years, Sherlock Holmes was high on cocaine. He was working diligently in the kitchen of 221b, on not only a case, but on several personal experiments. The area was a mess. Every surface was strewn with flyaway papers and rogue body parts. A mysterious fluid was dripping off the edges of the counter. Whether it was blood, or a chemical of some sort, even Sherlock didn't know. Most likely, it was a cocktail of several substances that he'd been using haphazardly in the area. The chaos in the room was the least of Sherlock's concern when he was accomplishing so much. He'd forgotten how good it felt to have his body and mind working in tandem. So often his body would lag behind his racing thoughts, and it irritated the detective to no end.

At that specific moment, Sherlock was standing at the table, typing furiously into his laptop. His eyes were wide and his pupils had masked nearly all of the piercing blue of his irises. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the marks where he had injected the substance into his system.

He knew that he shouldn't have done it. He knew it was a bad decision. But he couldn't care right then. That was future Sherlock's problem. He, in fact, was so concentrated on the task at hand that he didn't hear the footsteps of his flatmate coming up the stairs. In only moments, John entered the flat with an armful of groceries.

"Sherlock, I've got milk so I hope there's room in the fridge for it," he said, as he kicked off his shoes and stepped into the kitchen. John surveyed the area with a vague expression of distaste. "Well, at least you've emptied the fridge of the ears and arms you had in there- but it would've been nice if you'd put them somewhere other than… here." He stated, gesturing with his free hand to the general area of the kitchen.

His back was turned to Sherlock as he put away the groceries that he had purchased.

John sighed as he heard no response from the other man. Typical. Chances were that he was so immersed in his work that he hadn't even noticed the presence of the doctor. It was incredibly ironic how Sherlock could notice details that no one else would, but blatantly obvious events could go right over his head.

"Sherlock," Nothing. "Sherlock."

"Busy, John."

"What are you working on?" John asked, moving towards the preoccupied detective.

He tried to look over Sherlock's shoulder to see the screen of the laptop, but found himself being swatted away. This was when John noticed the marks. All up and down Sherlock's arms were those telltale bruises and scabs that screamed substance abuse.

Anger flooded John's body, but there was a sense of relief in knowing that the detective had been careless enough to forget to conceal the marks. If he hadn't, the taller man would've had a good chance at getting away with it.

"Sherlock Holmes, what the _hell_ are those?" John exclaimed, forcibly grabbing the exposed forearm to inspect it more closely.

Sherlock was hardly fazed by this abrupt action, continuing to type with his free hand with as much speed and ability as if he was using both. He wasn't about to let this interfere with his productivity. Nothing could stop him. In that moment he felt like he could do anything. Only seconds had passed, however, before the screen of the computer was slamming shut, narrowly missing his fingers. Sherlock looked up at John, his expression angry and accusatory.

"What on earth was that fo-" he was interrupted with an even more upset John.

"No. Sherlock. Shut up. What did you take? How much? And why the hell did you do it?" he demanded, grip still firm on the detective's wrist, despite the squirming that the taller man had started.

"Let go." He growled under his breath.

Eyes narrowing and lip curling in a sneer, John did so. Sherlock's tone was dangerously low, and he knew it wouldn't be safe to push it. They'd need to wait until he'd come down from the effects for the two of them to have a conversation that could be even remotely productive.

"Don't think for a _second_ that you're working anymore tonight. You're going to clean up anything that may blow up within the next while, and then you're going to sleep this off. We don't need to talk, and quite frankly, I don't want to talk to you at the moment, but this _not_ a request." John finished, and stalked off to the living room, lowering himself into his chair with a heavy sigh. He could tell that this was going to be a long, long run for the both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello people who read this! I just wanted to thank you for clicking on my story, even if you don't read it, and I hope that you have a lovely day. Please review, I'd love to get feedback from you guys. It can be hate or love or tips, I don't care, I'd just like to know what you think. xxx Nico**

It took more time than it should have, but Sherlock eventually managed to clean up the majority of his mess- there were several times where John needed to step in to redirect Sherlock's focus from attempting to work, back to the task at hand. At last, the spills managed to get wiped up and papers gathered into semi neat piles.

It would have been nice for Sherlock to properly tidy the place while he was on the drug fuelled rampage- he certainly would have had the energy to do so, but John knew that this was as close as he was going to get. The current state of the flat would have to suffice.

Sherlock stood pouting in the middle of the kitchen, an air of finality about him. John could tell that there was no chance that he'd be able to get him to do any more work.

"I'm done," he stated plainly.

With a sigh, John spoke. "Right. Good. Now go to bed. I don't care if you're not tired, I don't care if it kills you to lay in that bed and you don't sleep a wink, you're staying there until morning, and I'll not be joining you. Not tonight."

Almost immediately, Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. To what part of his instructions, John wasn't sure. He didn't care. He was too upset with the detective to sleep in the same bed as him as they had been for some time now. He'd sleep in what had become the spare bedroom.

"No. I'm not changing my mind. And, you're going to hand in your phone and laptop to me over the night. I don't want you working. We'll deal with any drugs you have stashed round here in the morning. If I don't have cooperation."

Sherlock scowled, making no attempt to hide his disdain for the situation. Any fragment of a filter that he had had been entirely dissolved under the influence of the cocaine. He hated every part of this and he wasn't about to lie. John couldn't confiscate his things. He wasn't a child. Admittedly, he acted like one, but it didn't happen _all_ the time. This wasn't fair. None of it was.

"I won't give them to you. When else do you suppose that I'll be able to get any work done?" He shouted.

"You should have thought of that before you decided to pump your veins full of that toxin. You have to deal with the consequences of it."

"I was prepared for physical consequences, but not for this." He muttered, glowering.

The icy stare that he was focused on giving John was interrupted as the doctor suddenly reached into his pocket, snatching his phone.

"Bed. Now. Go."

Silently, and miraculously without protest, the taller man shuffled in the direction of his room. John could hear the unmistakable sound of Sherlock throwing himself down on the bed. It was a sound that usually indicated bad news- that Sherlock was in one of his moods, but this particular night, it was relieving. At least it meant that he was obeying, if only to a certain extent.

John stood still where Sherlock had left him, countless questions flooding into his mind. He closed his eyes for a long moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.

How had this happened? Sherlock had been doing so well… Or so he thought. How long had this been going on? Had he been hiding it for a while? Was his reckless behaviour, and lack of fear for being caught the result of escalation of the drug habit? It was hard to tell how severe this truly was, and part of him didn't want to know.

Had it in any way been his own fault? No. John couldn't let himself think like that. It was Sherlock's decision. Even if it was something he'd done to trigger it, Sherlock was the one who had decided to use drugs instead of talking to him, or using a healthy coping mechanism.

Forcing himself to stop his train of thought, John opened his eyes and headed to the kitchen table, where Sherlock's laptop was sitting. He grabbed it, and with the phone and a heavy heart, he went to bed alone for the first time in a long while.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was difficult for the doctor to get to sleep. He could hear the rustling of the sheets from the other bedroom. Sherlock was tossing and turning in there, working hard against the desire to get up and move. At least he was making an effort to stay in bed. It was more that John had even hoped for while dealing with a high Sherlock.

Of course it wasn't John's first time when it came to this sort of thing, but it had been so long, and it was discouraging to say the least. He'd held onto the hope that Sherlock would never go back to the drugs, that somehow, their relationship would help him to overcome that. It was hurtful to think that after all they'd been through together, cocaine was still superior to him.

Was he being naive or even ridiculous to assume that Sherlock could put his life of addiction behind him? Or on the contrary, would assuming the worst of Sherlock be insulting? John didn't know where the balance lay. He wished that he could switch into doctor mode— to look at this from an objective point of view, but any shred of professionalism was clouded by his love for the other man. That and the fury that was still brewing in his chest.

These sorts of thoughts persisted in John's mind for some time, bouncing off one another, adding fuel to the fire. Thank goodness it did not last forever. He wasn't sure when it happened, but eventually, his thoughts went from racing, to the pace of a leisurely stroll, and at last, to a halt. The former soldier's eyes closed, and breaths slowed, until he was in a peaceful sleep: blissfully, albeit temporarily, unaware of the evening's dramatics.

Sherlock's tossing and turning stopped just before the doctor had drifted off. The cocaine's effects had diminished, leaving him feeling sluggish and determined to get more. Having been clean for so long prior, his tolerance for high quantities of the drug had diminished significantly. He'd been running on manufactured energy. As soon as the high was gone, his body had been forced to realize the weight of his exhaustion. So before he could even try to get up to get himself another hit, the detective was out cold.

John awoke feeling refreshed and clearheaded. He hadn't forgotten the events of the previous night, but for a moment, it felt like he could ignore them. The flat was quiet, sunshine was seeping through the edges of the curtains, giving the room a warm and soft glow. Wouldn't it be easier to get up, make some tea, and pretend that nothing had happened? He scared himself a little bit by how seriously he'd considered the thought. He couldn't help it. Was it not an enticing fantasy?

Fantasy, however, was the key word. That was not the life that he'd signed up for when he'd agreed to share a flat with that bloody fascinating and devilishly handsome prick of a man that was called Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't the life he wanted either. John thrived off of adventure perhaps as much as Sherlock did, and though the thought of a domestic life together occasionally sounded appealing, it wasn't their speed. Never would be.

Slowly, John sat up and stretched, taking in a long breath. He couldn't decide how he should approach Sherlock. Should he wait for the detective to wake up on his own time, and greet him with a nice cuppa ready? Or should he barge in and let the now sober man hear how he felt about all that had happened? Maybe even giving Mycroft a call would be the way to go. At least it would spare John the extra ounce of initial confrontation. It seemed that there was no good way to do it. Why the hell did Sherlock have to go and make everything so bloody complicated?

Whatever. He'd let Sherlock sleep for a while longer, God knows the man needed it. It was remarkable how little Sherlock could run on. With a sigh, John got up and made his way to the kitchen.

A couple hours and a few of cups of tea later, John figured that it was about time to get the detective up. It was concerning that he hadn't yet made an appearance. It meant that he'd either snuck out to work, or to get another hit. More concerning still, was the chance that he could still be asleep. So, with a glass of water in hand, John quietly approached Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Sherlock?" He called, gently knocking before he opened it up. "I've got some water for you, sit up." John set the water down on the bedside table, and moved towards the curtains to let in some light.

"Sherlock, up. We need to chat." He said, finally turning round to give the detective a proper look. Immediately, John frowned. Sherlock's face was pale— nearly translucent looking, and his skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat. His body was trembling, and his breaths were quick and shallow. These weren't normal withdrawal symptoms. Not for cocaine.

John's blood ran cold as he suddenly realized that he'd never once bothered to find out just how much Sherlock had taken the night before.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 **Author's note: Hey guys! I apologize for the slow update, I've been struggling with some mental health things lately. Thank you so much for your patience! I hope you enjoy the new chapter. Please favourite, follow, and most importantly, review. I appreciate your feedback so much, and love to hear what you guys have to say. Any suggestions or corrections, or anything will be truly considered. Thanks y'all. Have an awesome day.**

"Christ," John muttered to himself, kneeling beside the bed. He reached out to shake Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock. C'mon, love. You've got to get up." He grabbed Sherlock's hand, taking his pulse on his wrist. A little slow, but nothing too concerning. Next, John's hand moved to brush under the detective's damp curls.

As he was trying to decide if Sherlock's temperature was a problem, or if it was just his hands that had gone cold in his moment of panic, John was lazily swatted at. Relief washed over him. Never had he been so glad to have an annoyed Sherlock trying to get rid of him. Maybe he wasn't doing well, but he was responsive.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You had me scared for a moment there."

A mumbled, "Go away." Was the only response that John received, and it brought back a hint of the previous night's anger. He wanted to be caring, and affectionate, and encouraging to Sherlock, but it was hard. He loved that man— more than anything he'd ever loved before. He couldn't lose him. Not again. There had been far too many close calls throughout their relationship, and it was a pattern that needed to be put behind them. He had a right to be upset with the detective and his blatant lack of care for his own wellbeing. It needed to change, and John couldn't be the only one putting in the effort.

John sighed, and took a seat on the bed beside Sherlock. Slowly, he moved his hand to rest on the brunet's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. It was evident enough that Sherlock wasn't comfortable. Despite the circumstances, John hated to see his boyfriend in pain. It happened more frequently now that they'd spent so long together, but it was still a rare sight to see Sherlock in such a vulnerable position.

"List. Where is it?" John asked, his tone firm, but not unkind. "Or are you willing to tell me what you took, and how much? I need to know what to anticipate, and how vigilant I need to be in the immediate future."

"It— it was cocaine. Mostly,"

"Mostly?" John raised an eyebrow.

"When I went to," he paused, swallowing. "When I went to pick it up, they were all doing speedballs and… You know, the mix would help the- the crash from the cocaine. Brings you down nice and slow…"

"Refresh my memory," the doctor said, voice low. The thought of a bunch of crackheads influencing Sherlock's decision in what he took seemed preposterous. 'They were all doing speedballs.' It didn't seem very much like the person he knew, bur then again, surprises were many with the detective. "What exactly, is a _speedball_?" John knew the terms for many drugs, along with a handful of their street names, but this sort of lingo was certainly not his forte. He'd heard the most of it during his time in Afghanistan, but this particular one he wasn't familiar with.

"Mix of an accelerant and an opiate. In this case, cocaine cut with heroin." He explained, tone rather dull.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Heroin?" John's words were't as incredulous as they were tired. With one hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose. That was new to him. Sherlock's depressant of choice had always been Morphine. Whatever. At least to his knowledge, Sherlock had at no point in his life become dependent on that drug, which was good news. Heroin was extremely addictive, and came with brutal withdrawals. John hoped that he'd be able to prevent Sherlock from going back to it. The idea of him getting into that drug… He didn't want to imagine it. Sherlock would be ruined. "How much?"

"Y'know…" Sherlock mumbled, his words still thick with sleep. "Enough."

"I know you keep track, how much?"

"About 60mg of Cocaine. 10mg of Heroin. Happy?"

"No. Not the word I'd use to describe how I'm feeling at this moment," John grumbled, rolling his eyes. "But relieved. A bit. I know you've got a high tolerance. How're you feeling?"

Sherlock rolled onto his front and let out an exaggerated groan into the pillow. John didn't need to hear any more. The withdrawals wouldn't be a good time, but they wouldn't be as bad as they could've been had this been going on longer.

"You know I'm going to take care of you, but in the same beat, you've entirely earned the consequences. I hate it when you're not feeling well, but don't expect any pity. You can't blame me for not being the happiest with you at the moment." John said, arms crossed.

Another groan came from Sherlock. "Yes, yes, I understand, now shut up and leave. Close the curtains on your way out."

"Sherlock. Now I don't expect you to be Mr. Sunshine, but at least sit up and have some water. I can get you some paracetamol as well if you'd like."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I don't want anything," he failed to suppress a shiver as a chill coursed through his thin frame. "Either get me a case, another hit, or let me go back to sleep."

John sighed, shooting the brunet a pleading look. "Just some water then. Please."

With a huff of frustration, Sherlock pulled himself into a half sitting position. "Fine. Some. Not all of it." He took a couple slow sips, everything about the action begrudging.

"Thank you," John replied. "Now," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll leave you to rest, because I know this is the only time you'll willingly sleep. At least not without either bribery or threats," He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's curls. "I'll be here if you need anything."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Not an hour had passed before John heard the sound of frantic scrambling in the hall. Immediately, he jumped to his feet and hurried in the direction of the noise. Just before the doctor reached the open door of the bathroom, the sound of retching could be heard. With a sigh, he entered, kneeling down behind Sherlock to rub his back in soothing circles.

Withdrawals were always difficult, especially when opioids were involved. With substances like Heroin, sometimes it only took one hit to become hooked. It likely wouldn't be the case for Sherlock, but at the very least, the next few days were bound to be awful. How he would respond to the lack of cocaine, well, that was less predictable. He might be fine, but there was a good chance for psychological side effects. Depression, intense cravings, irritability, none were easy to deal with, especially not with Sherlock.

In a couple minutes that seemed more like an eternity, the detective's painful heaving subsided. He flushed the toilet and leaned back against the wall, gulping down air. Sweat covered his body, yet he was shivering. It was a rather pathetic sight, and John couldn't help but take pity on the man. In this state he was so vulnerable, so small, and while it broke his heart, it was a rare occasion. He felt as if he was being let in on some sort of secret. Gently, John reached out and pushed away the curls that were plastered to the detective's damp forehead.

"Stay there," he instructed, getting to his feet. "I'm going to fetch you some water and a flannel." With this, John exited the room, leaving a silent, and miserable Sherlock behind.

Shortly, he returned, passing the glass of water to Sherlock. The detective merely stared down at the liquid. He certainly didn't feel inclined to ingest anything after that ordeal. For all he knew, it would come right back up. The sensation of the cold and wet flannel on his forehead came as somewhat of a shock to him. The man tensed slightly. Even though he was freezing, the cool cloth felt piercingly cold against his clammy skin. It was altogether a confusing and entirely unpleasant sensation.

"Must you do that?" He asked flatly, voice hoarse from the strain that had just been put on his throat.

"Sherlock, you're all sweaty," John remarked. "That'll be one of the side effects of the smack you took, you dolt," he continued to wipe gently at Sherlock's face, moving down to the back of his neck. "Actually, I'm going to run you a bath." John left the flannel to rest on Sherlock's neck, and decidedly set the tub running.

The water was warm, but not hot, and when it was about halfway filled, John shifted back over to Sherlock. He had not yet touched the water. Reaching out, John began to unbutton the brunet's shirt. Of course he hadn't bothered changing into comfortable clothes overnight. Hygiene evidently hadn't been a priority for Sherlock considering the state he had been in the previous evening. Needless to say, he wasn't smelling the best.

Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt from the bottom, with the intention of meeting John in the middle. At least, this is what he was trying to do, but his hands were shaking, rendering the task nearly impossible. With a sigh, John paused his own effort and took Sherlock's hands, squeezing them gently.

"Sherlock," his voice was mildly reprimanding. "Let me help you."

A quizzical expression appeared on the detective's face. "Why?" He tried momentarily to pull his trembling hands out of John's grasp. "You're upset with me. Why would you want to be helping."

John let go with one hand, and ran a hand through his blond hair. Sherlock had gotten considerably better at understanding human emotion and connection. It had taken a few years, but the progress was there. That did not mean though that it was perfect.

"You're not wrong. I _am_ upset with you. And moreso disappointed. But none of that taints my love for you, Sherlock. That's not how these things work," he went back to unbuttoning the detective's shirt, and slid it off his shoulders. "I knew the risks I was taking when we got together. I knew that relapses were entirely possible in the future. It wasn't a deal breaker for me. Our trust is damaged now, but it can be fixed," quickly, he reached over and turned off the now full tub. His fingers nimbly undid Sherlock's belt. "Here, let's get you up." John hoisted Sherlock to his feet.

"Thanks," Sherlock whispered, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself.

Quickly, Sherlock slipped off his trousers and pants, and was being helped into the warm bath water.

"Anyhow, Sherlock, as your friend, boyfriend, and your doctor, I want to help you. I want to see you recover. I want the best for you, despite being upset about all this."

A weak, quivering smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. It melted John's heart.

"I am… I am sorry, John. It could be that I'm only sorry because I'm in the full swing of withdrawal, and am having cravings, or that I just don't like it when you're cross with me… but I think that I really am sorry."

John couldn't help but chuckle lightly as he began to shampoo his boyfriend's curls. "I know, Sherlock. I believe you."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Just as John was about to start the process of rinsing Sherlock off and draining the tub, the loud sound of a phone vibrating against the counter echoed throughout the room. John sighed, and pulled back. Silently, he dried his hands and reached for his phone. He wasn't surprised to see Mycroft's name on the screen. Tempted as he was to ignore the call, John thought better of it. He'd rather chat with Mycroft over the phone than have him make an unwelcome and dramatic appearance in the flat.

Heaving a sigh, John answered the phone.

"Hel—" he was interrupted by Mycroft's voice before he could finish his greeting.

"As you are certainly aware, my brother has been using again. I've discovered his supplier, and have shut down all other potential suppliers to my knowledge. Well, shut them down in regards to him." Mycroft paused briefly to take a breath, and John knew that he needed to seize the opportunity to interject.

"Mycroft, what exactly is your point here? Because if this update isn't immediately helpful to either of us, I have your brother to tend to. So please, make this quick."

"Yes, of course. I trust your judgement as a doctor when it comes to the matter of his health. If you ever need any backup due to his attitude, however, let me know. I can send some people over to provide any… reinforcements necessary. I'm sending Lestrade and a few others over to do a sweep of the flat for any remaining drugs. Let's hope that this was a one time mistake. We can't have it turning into an ongoing trend. Not again."

"I know, Mycroft. But you don't need to send anyone. We finally got the place cleaned up, and we don't need it being torn apart again so soon. I'm sure I'll be able to handle thi—" he was cut off once more.

"They'll be over in half an hour." Click. The eldest Holmes brother had hung up. At least he'd respected John's wishes in keeping the conversation short.

John set down his phone and turned round to see Sherlock apparently trying to drown himself in the receding water levels of the bathtub. It was largely ineffective, as the water had drained so much in his short absence that the detective's slender nose was still sticking up out of the water. The doctor chuckled and shook his head.

"Right, drama queen, lets get you up. Get ready to hear it from Greg," he reached into the tub and hoisted Sherlock up with strong arms. He wanted to get the taller man out of the tub as quickly as possible. He didn't seem steady on his feet, and the last thing they needed was for him to slip and end up with a concussion on top of the withdrawal. That and the fact that Sherlock was shaking like a leaf from the cold.

Quickly as he was up, John was wrapping a large towel round Sherlock.

"There," he said gently. "Now, you can go to bed, or you can go lay on the couch, but you'll be interrupted regardless,"

"I know, John," Sherlock said gruffly. "It's not as if I'm unfamiliar to this sort of occasion." He pulled himself away from the other, and shuffled towards the door.

John sighed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Maybe it was turning into a habit, but it always seemed to be an appropriate way to express himself. Sherlock was already out of the bathroom, leaving a dripping trail through the hall to the bedroom.

Before John had managed to catch up with him, Sherlock had emerged wearing what he assumed was nothing but a duvet. At least it was warmer than the infamous sheet he'd sported on previous occasions, but John still wished that he'd put something proper on. Fortunately living with Sherlock forced one to learn how to choose one's battles, and this was not one worth fighting.

It seemed that as soon as Sherlock had collapsed in his chair, there was a sharp banging on the door. The detective flinched. The sound was piercing and painful. Lestrade was early. It had only been twenty-one minutes since Mycroft had called, and the anticipation of having the flat filled with a herd of irritating human beings was making him feel sick again. With a groan of annoyance, Sherlock pulled the duvet up over his head, leaving him to look much like a nun.

Lestrade let himself in the flat, followed by Sally Donovan. At least Anderson hadn't had the nerve to come along. Sally might be sour, but she was tolerable when need be.

"Bloody idiot," Lestrade said loudly, glancing at Sherlock. He didn't bother going over to the detective. He had work to do. "Hand over whatever you have now, and it should speed up the process. We shouldn't have to do quite as thorough of a sweep that way." He advised.

Upon hearing these words, Sherlock began to squirm in his seat. At first one would think that this ordeal was making him restless, but soon a hand emerged with two small baggies of powder, the off white colour that comprised of the cut of cocaine and heroin. He closed his fist round the bags, and kept his arm extended.

"Were you really sitting on them?" Lestrade snorted incredulously, watching as Sally struggled to pry the bags out of Sherlock's slender fingers. It wasn't long before she'd succeeded, and she tossed them to the inspector.

"Last thing you need are these, freak," she spat. A hint of pity could be noticed, not in her voice, but in her face as she said the words. It was a kinder disposition than Sherlock was used to, but he despised it. Pity was not what he needed. What he needed, was to be left alone to deal with this by himself.

Feeling entirely miserable and annoyed, Sherlock drew the duvet round his face, desperate to block out everything that was going on at that moment. The sounds hurt his ears. The lights hurt his eyes. He was still freezing and burning at the same time in a way that made him tremble involuntarily. One more hit would stop it. Almost instantaneously. If only he could just have a little bit. A couple milligrams more... No. he needed to stop. His flat was being rifled through because the drugs were bad. Because they were capable of destroying the mind that brought him his livelihood. He couldn't let this turn into what it had been in the past. Not only did he have work to live for, but he had John. He had... friends. Lestrade, Molly, even a fondness, albeit minimal, for Sally Donovan. He needed to overcome this before it escalated. If only to prove a point.

He may have had the mindset of maturity, but he wasn't willing to bring it to reality right then. It felt much safer under his little fortress of blankets. There he stayed, listening to the rustling and chatter from the others in the flat, until he dozed off, in a heap in his chair.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was a firm thwack in the side of the head that roused Sherlock from his slumber. He was still tangled in his duvet, draped over his chair, limbs hanging off every which way. Lestrade was in front of him, staring down.

"Oi, wake up," he said, prepared to gently hit the curly haired man once more.

"Stop that… What do you want?" Sherlock murmured, holding up a hand in a gesture of surrender.

"As long as you don't have anything else to admit to, we're done here. Other than what you already turned over and what we found in the bathroom, do you have anything more?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly, wincing with the movement. "Nothing, Gill. Are you going to lecture me or are you going to leave?" He asked.

"It's Gre- why do I even try?" Greg murmured to himself, stopping short when trying to correct his name. Sherlock was just being a pain in the arse, as per usual. "We're going to leave. And you're going to get sober, and stay clean if you want to work for me. I'll be in touch with John, and won't be giving you any cases let alone letting you come along unless you cooperate."

He couldn't have Sherlock dropping dead from something this stupid. Greg needed Sherlock. The whole city did, and the Consulting Detective's life was put on the line far too frequently. It seemed that Sherlock was already living on borrowed time, and they couldn't surrender any of it to his drug habit. He almost said something empathetic. Something emotional. He nearly said that he needed Sherlock. That he wanted him to come back to work as soon as possible. It could give him the incentive to get better. He thought better of it. While Sherlock was in this mindset, he'd just use it as leverage. He'd have to stay detached. And with that, the detective inspector strode out of the flat, following his colleagues.

"Enjoy your nap?"

John's voice came from behind his chair, the familiar weight of his hand soon landing on the detective's shoulder. A non-committal grunt was the only response that Sherlock provided. John couldn't help but chuckle.

"At least Greg was feeling kind enough to leave the flat somewhat in tact," he mentioned. This fact had helped to maintain the doctor's improved mood. "I hope that their little treasure hunt in here hasn't been in vain. Promise you have nothing else to hand over?" The doctor raised an eyebrow with a knowing glance at the detective. The brilliant bastard could withhold drugs if he wanted to.

"Promise." And it was the truth. It didn't mean he'd end up going to purchase more in the future. There could never be that sort of guarantee. But in that moment, 221B Baker Street was free from any and all illegal narcotics. John's hand moved to brush through Sherlock's curls. He retracted it quickly.

"Christ, you're sweating."

And he supposed he was. He'd been caught up in his exhausted and chilled state, and hadn't noticed the near rivulets of sweat pouring from his body. John stepped away, returning with another damp cloth. He wiped Sherlock's face, before resting it on his neck. The doctor tugged gently at the duvet, pulling it away from the detective. It was wet from sweat. He handed Sherlock his robe, which he'd had draped over his shoulder.

"I know you're cold, Sherlock, but you've got a fever. It'll go down soon enough." He explained. "Put on your robe. I'm going to throw this in the wash and get you some water—"

"No."

John carried on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Would you like some paracetamol to go with it? Are you nauseous? I can get you something for that too. May as well try to manage your symptoms. It's not as if you aren't familiar with the consequences. Making you live through them in ultimate discomfort won't change your mind about anything," he noted, gathering the duvet properly in his arms. The detective was silent as he slipped into the robe. John figured he'd give them to him anyway. Especially the water. He needed to stay hydrated.

John hummed and Sherlock shivered. John handed him the glass of water and Sherlock glowered into it. It was nearly their regular dynamic and daily rhythm. The two were either in a tug of war of opinions and ideas, or worked flawlessly as a pair able to read and respect each other at any given moment. Just as John was about to give up on getting Sherlock to take his medicine, the familiar clipping sound of shoes that belonged to none other than Mrs. Hudson were making their way up the stairs.

The woman let herself in the flat, singing softly to herself. She began to prepare tea, acting as if she had no care in the world.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, how are you?" John asked, setting the medication down beside Sherlock to pop his head into the kitchen to properly greet the landlady.

"I'm just fine dear. Go sit down. Tea'll be ready in a minute." She knew exactly how the two men liked their tea. She knew exactly how they felt about each other, during all those years when they insisted that they weren't a couple. Sherlock may have been the genius, but Mrs. Hudson was often more knowing than them all, and if you payed attention, you could often see it in her smile.

That exact smile that rested on her lips as she brought a teapot and some cups into the living room where the couple were seated.


End file.
